F689 


UC-NRLF 


FRIEND    BARTON'S    CONCERN. 

By  Mary  HallockjFoote. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

By  Mary  Hallock  Foote. 


IT  had  been  "  borne  in"  upon  him,  more  or  less, 
during  the  long  winter  ;  it  had  not  relaxed  its 
hold  when  the  frosts  unlocked  and  the  streams 
were  set  free  from  their  long  winter's  silence  among 
the  hills.  He  grew  restless  and  abstracted  under 
44  the  turnings  of  the  Lord's  hand  upon  him,"  and 
his  speech  unconsciously  shaped  itself  into  the 
Biblical  cadences  which  came  to  him  in  his  mo- 
ments of  spiritual  exercise. 

The  bedrabbled  snows  of  March  shrank  away 
before  the  keen,  quickening  sunbeams  ;  the  hills 
emerged,  brown  and  sodden,  like  the  chrysalis  of 
the  new  year.  The  streams  woke  in  a  tumult,  and 
all  day  and  night  their  voices  called  from  the  hills 
back  of  the  mill.  The  waste-weir  was  a  foaming 
torrent,  and  spread  itself  in  muddy  shallows  across 
the  meadow  beyond  the  old  garden  where  the  rob- 

»*»  Scribner* s  Magazine,  yuly^  1879. 

W7258G 


84  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

iris''  and  blue  birds  were  house-hunting.  Friend 
,\  •  JB^.rt'on's  trouble  stirred  with  the  life-blood  of  the 
year,  and  pressed  upon  him  sorely;  but  as  yet  he 
gave  it  no  words.  He  plodded  about  among  his 
lean  kine,  tempering  the  winds  of  March  to  his  un-  . 
timely  lambs,  and  reconciling  unnatural  ewes  to 
their  maternal  duties. 

Friend  Barton  had  never  heard  of  the  doctrine 
of  the  survival  of  the  fittest  ;  though  it  was  the 
spring  of  1812,  and  England  and  America  were 
investigating  the  subject  on  the  seas,  while  the 
nations  of  Europe  were  practically  illustrating  it. 
The  "  hospital  tent,"  as  the  boys  called  an  old 
corn-basket,  covered  with  carpet,  which  stood  be- 
side the  kitchen  chimney,  was  seldom  without  an 
occupant, — a  brood  of  chilled  chickens,  a  weakly 
lamb,  or  a  wee  pig  (with  too  much  blue  in  its  pink- 
ness),  which  had  been  left  behind  by  its  stouter 
brethren  in  the  race  for  existence.  The  old  mill 
hummed  away  through  the  day,  and  often  late  in 
the  evening  if  time  pressed,  upon  the  grists  which 
added  a  thin,  intermittent  stream  of  tribute  to  the 
family  income.  Whenever  work  was  "slack," 
Friend  Barton  was  sawing  or  chopping  in  the 
wood-shed  adjoining  the  kitchen  ;  every  moment 
he  could  seize  or  make  he  was  there,  stooping  over 
the  rapidly  growing  pile. 

"  Seems  to  me,  father,  thee's  in  a  great  hurry 
with  the  wood  this  spring.  I  don't  know  when 
we've  had  such  a  pile  ahead." 

"  'Twon't  burn  up  any  faster  for  being  chopped," 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  85 

Friend  Barton  said  ;  and  then  his  wife  Rachel  knew 
that  if  he  had  a  reason  for  being  "  forehanded  " 
with  the  wood,  he  was  not  ready  to  give  it. 

One  rainy  April  afternoon,  when  the  smoky  gray 
distances  began  to  take  a  tinge  of  green,  and 
through  the  drip  and  rustle  of  the  rain  the  call  of 
the  robins  sounded,  Friend  Barton  sat  in  the  door 
of  the  barn,  oiling  the  road-harness.  The  old 
chaise  had  been  wheeled  out  and  greased,  and  its 
cushions  beaten  and  dusted. 

An  ox- team  with  a  load  of  grain  creaked  up  the 
hill  and  stopped  at  the  mill  door.  The  driver,  see- 
ing Friend  Barton's  broad-brimmed  drab  felt  hat 
against  the  dark  interior  of  the  barn,  came  down 
the  short  lane  leading  from  the  mill  past  the  house 
and  farm-buildings. 

44  Fixin'  up  for  travelling  Uncle  Tommy  ?" 

Vain  compliments  were  unacceptable  to  Thomas 
Barton,  and  he  was  generally  known  and  addressed 
as  "  Uncle  Tommy"  by  the  world's  people  of  a 
younger  generation. 

44  It  is  not  in  man  that  walketh  to  direct  his  own 
steps,  neighbor  Gordon.  I  am  getting  myself  in 
readiness  to  obey  the  Lord,  whichever  way  He 
calls  me." 

Farmer  Gordon  cast  a  shrewd  eye  over  the  prem- 
ises. They  wore  that  patient,  sad,  exhumed  look 
which  old  farm-buildings  are  apt  to  have  in  early 
spring.  The  roofs  were  black  with  rain,  and 
brightened  with  patches  of  green  moss.  Farm- 
er   Gordon    instinctively    calculated     how    many 


86  FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  bunches  o'  shingle"  would  be  required  to  rescue 
them  from  the  decline  into  which  they  had  fallen, 
in  spite  of  the  hectic  green  spots. 

14  Wal,  the  Lord  calls  most  of  us  to  stay  at  home 
and  look  after  things,  such  weather  as  this.  Good 
plantin'  weather;  good  weather  for  breakin' 
ground  ;  fust-rate  weather  for  millin'  !  This  is  a 
reg'lar  miller's  rain,  Uncle  Tommy.  You  ought 
to  be  takin*  advantage  of  it.  I've  got  a  grist  back 
here  ;  wish  ye  could  manage  to  let  me  have  it  when 
I  come  back  from  store." 

The  grist  was  ground  and  delivered  before  Friend 
Barton  went  in  to  his  supper  that  night.  Dorothy 
Barton  had  been  mixing  bread,  and  was  wiping  her 
white  arms  and  hands  on  the  roller  towel  by  the 
kitchen  door,  as  her  father  stamped  and  scraped 
his  feet  on  the  stones  outside. 

"  I  do  believe  I  forgot  to  toll  neighbor  Gordon's 
rye,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  a  final  rub  on  the  broom 
Dorothy  handed  out  to  him.  44  It's  wonderful  how 
careless  I  get  !" 

"  Well,  father,  I  don't  suppose  thee'd  ever  for- 
get, and  toll  a  grist  twice  !" 

u  I  believe  I've  been  mostly  preserved  from  mis- 
takes of  that  kind,"  said  Friend  Barton  gently. 
44  It  may  have  been  the  Lord  who  stayed  my  hand 
from  gathering  profit  unto  myself  while  his  lambs 
go  unfed." 

Dorothy  put  her  hands  on  her  father's  shoulders. 
She  was  almost  as  tall  as  he,  and  could  look  into 
his  patient,  troubled  eyes. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  87 

11  Father,  I  know  what  thee  is  thinking  of  ;  but 
do   think  long.     It   will  be  a  hard  year  ;  the  boys  S 
ought  to  go  to  school  ;  and  mother  is  so  feeble.' ' 

Friend  Barton's  "  concern"  kept  him  awake  long 
that  night.  His  wife  watched  by  his  side,  giving 
no  sign,  lest  her  wakeful  presence  should  disturb 
his  silent  wrestlings.  The  tall,  cherry-wood  clock  v 
in  the  entry  measured  the  hours  as  they  passed 
with  its  slow,  dispassionate  tick. 

At  two  o'clock  Rachel  Barton  was  awakened 
from  her  first  sleep  of  weariness  by  her  husband's 
voice  whispering  heavily  in  the  darkness. 

11  My  way  is  hedged  up  !  I  see  no  way  to  go 
forward.  Lord,  strengthen  my  patience,  that  I 
murmur  not,  after  all  I  have  seen  of  Thy  goodness. 
I  find  daily  bread  is  very  desirable  ;  want  and 
necessity  are  painful  to  nature  ;  but  shall  I  follow 
Thee  for  the  sake  of  the  loaves,  or  will  it  do  to  for- 
sake Thee  in  times  of  emptiness  and  abasement  ?" 

There  was  silence  again,  and  restless  tossings 
and  sighings  continued  the  struggle. 

"  Thomas,"  the  wife's  voice  spoke  tremulously 
in  the  darkness,  "  my  dear  husband,  I  know  where 
thy  thoughts  are  tending.  If  the  Spirit  is  with 
thee,  do  not  deny  it  for  our  sakes,  I  pray  thee. 
The  Lord  did  not  give  thee  thy  wife  and  children 
to  hang  as  a  millstone  round  thy  neck.  I  am  thy 
helpmeet,  to  strengthen  thee  in  his  service.  I  am 
thankful  that  I  have  my  health  this  spring  better 
than  usual,  and  Dorothy  is  a  wonderful  help.  Her 
spirit  was  sent  to  sustain  me  in  thy  long  absences. 


SS  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

Go,  dear,  and  serve  our  Master,  who  has  called 
thee  in  these  bitter  strivings  !  Dorothy  and  I  will 
keep  things  together  as  well  as  we  can.  The  way- 
will  open — never  fear  !"  She  put  out  her  hand 
and  touched  his  face  in  the  darkness  ;  there  were 
tears  on  the  furrowed  cheeks.  "  Try  to  sleep, 
dear,  and  let  thy  spirit  have  rest.  There  is  but 
one  answer  to  this  call." 

With  the  first  drowsy  twitterings  of  the  birds, 
when  the  crescent-shaped  openings  in  the  board 
shutters  began  to  define  themselves  clearly  in  the 
shadowy  room,  they  arose  and  went  about  their 
morning  tasks  in  silence.  Friend  Barton's  step 
was  a  little  heavier  than  usual,  and  the  hollows 
round  his  wife's  pale  brown  eyes  were  a  little 
deeper.  As  he  sat  on  the  splint-bottomed  chair  by 
the  kitchen  fireplace,  drawing  on  his  boots,  she 
laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  her  cheek  on 
the  worn  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

"  Thee  will  lay  this  concern  before  meeting  to- 
morrow, father  V* 

j     "  I  had  it  on   my  mind  to  do  so, — if  my  light  be 
not  quenched  before  then." 

Friend  Barton's  light  was  not  quenched.  Words 
came  to  him  without  seeking,  in  which  to  "  open 
the  concern  which  had  ripened  in  his  mind,"  of  a 
religious  visit  to  the  meeting  constituting  the 
yearly  meetings  of  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore. 
A, "  minute"  was  given  him  encouraging  him  in 
the  name  of,  and  with  the  full  concurrence  of,  the 
monthly   meetings   of    Nine   Partners,   and    Stony 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN.  89 

Valley,  to  go  wherever  the  Truth  might  lead  him. 
While  Friend  Barton  was  thus  freshly  anointed, 
and  M  abundantly  encouraged,"  his  wife,  Rachel, 
was  talking  with  Dorothy  in  the  low  upper  cham- 
ber, known  as  the  "  wheel-room." 

Dorothy  was  spinning  wool  on  the  big  wheel, 
dressed  in  her  light  calico  short-gown  and  brown 
quilted  petticoat  ;  her  arms  were  bare,  and  her  hair 
was  gathered  away  from  her  flushed  cheeks  and 
knotted  behind  her  ears.  The  roof  sloped  down 
on  one  side,  and  the  light  came  from  a  long  low 
window  under  the  eaves.  There  was  another  win- 
dow (shaped  like  a  half  moon  high  up  in  the  peak), 
but  it  sent  down  only  one  long  beam  of  sunlight, 
which  glimmered  across  the  dust  and  fell  upon 
Dorothy's  white  neck. 

The  wheel  was  humming  a  quick  measure,  and 
Dorothy  trod  lightly  back  and  forth,  the  wheel- 
pin  in  one  hand,  the  other  upraised  holding  the 
tense,  lengthening  thread,  which  the  spindle  de- 
voured again. 

"  Dorothy,  thee  looks  warm  : — can't  thee  sit 
down  a  moment,  while  I  talk  to  thee  ?" 

"  Is  it  anything  important,  mother?  I  want  to 
get  my  twenty  knots  before  dinner."  She  paused 
as  she  joined  a  long  tress  of  wool  at  the  spindle. 
"  Is  it  anything  about  father?" 

"  Yes,  it's  about  father,  and  all  of  us." 

M  I  know,"  said  Dorothy,  stretching  herself  back 
with  a  sigh.     "  He's  going  away  again  !" 

y  Yes,  dear.     He  feels  that  he  is  called.     It  is  a 


90  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

time  of  trouble  and  contention  everywhere, — '  the 
harvest  truly  is  plenteous,  but  the  laborers  are 
few.'  " 

"  There  are  not  so  many  '  laborers  '  here,  mother, 
though  to  be  sure,  the  harvest — " 

"  Dorothy,  my  daughter  !  don't  let  a  spirit  of 
levity  creep  into  thy  speech.  Thy  father  has 
striven  and  wrestled  with  his  urgings.  I've  seen  it 
working  on  him  all  winter  ;  he  feels  now  it  is  the 
Lord's  will." 

■'  I  don't  see  how  he  can  be  so  sure,"  said 
Dorothy,  swaying  gloomily  to  and  fro  against  the 
wheel.  "  I  don't  care  for  myself, — I'm  not  afraid 
of  work, — but  thee' s  not  able  to  do  what  thee  does 
now,  mother.  If  I  have  outside  things  to  look 
after,  how  can  I  help  thee  as  I  should  ?  The  boys 
are  about  as  much  dependence  as  a  flock  of  barn 
swallows  !" 

"  Don't  fret  about  me,  dear  ;  the  way  will  open. 
Thy  father  has  thought  and  planned  for  us  ;  have 
patience  while  I  tell  thee.  Thee  knows  Walter 
Evesham's  pond  is  small  and  his  mill  is  doing  a 
thriving  business  ?" 

V  Yes,  I  know  it  !"  Dorothy  exclaimed.  "  He 
has  his  own  share,  and  ours  too — most  of  it  !" 

"  Wait,  dear,  wait  !  Thy  father  has  rented  him 
the  ponds  to  use  when  his  own  gives  out.  He  is  to 
have  the  control  of  the  water,  and  it  will  give  us  a 
little  income,  even  though  the  old  mill  does  stand 
idle." 

"  He  may  as  well  take  the  mill,  too.     If  father  is 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  91 

away  all  summer  it  will  be  useless  ever  to  start  it 
again.  Thee'll  see,  mother,  how  it  will  end  if 
Walter  Evesham  has  the  custom  and  the  water  all 
summer.  I  think  it's  miserable  for  a  young  man 
to  be  so  keen  about  money/' 

M  Dorothy,  seems  to  me  thee's  hasty  in  thy  judg- 
ments. I  never  heard  that  said  of  Walter  Eve- 
sham. His  father  left  him  with  capital  to  improve 
his  mill.  It  does  better  work  than  ours  ;  we  can't 
complain  of  that.  Thy  father  was  never  one  to 
study  much  after  ways  of  making  money.  He  felt 
he  had  no  right  to  more  than  an  honest  livelihood. 
I  don't  say  that  Walter  Evesham's  in  the  wrong. 
We  know  that  Joseph  took  advantage  of  his  oppor- 
tunities, though  I  can't  say  that  I  ever  felt  much 
unity  with  some  of  his  transactions.  What  would 
thee  have,  my  dear?  Thee's  discouraged  with 
thy  father  for  choosing  the  thorny  way,  which  we! 
tread  with  him  ;  but  thee  seems  no  better  satisfied 
with  one  who  considers  the  flesh  and  its  wants  !" 

11  I  don't  know,  mother,  what  I  want  for  myself. 
It  doesn't  matter,  but  for  thee  I  would  have  rest 
from  all  these  cruel  worries  thee  has  borne  so 
long." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  mother's  lap  and  put 
her  strong  young  arms  about  the  frail,  toil-bent 
form. 

M  There,  there,  dear.  Try  to  rule  thy  spirit, 
Dorothy.  Thee's  too  much  worked  up  about  this. 
They  are  not  worries  to  me.  I  am  thankful  we 
have  nothing  to  decide,  one  way  or  the  other — only 


92  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN, 

to  do  our  best  with  what  is  given  us.  Thee's  not 
thyself,  dear.  Go  down-stairs  and  fetch  in  the 
clothes,  and  don't  hurry  ;  stay  out  till  thee  gets 
more  composed." 

Dorothy  did  not  succeed  in  bringing  herself  into 
unity  with  her  father's  call,  but  she  came  to  a  fuller 
realization  of  his  struggle.  When  he  bade  them 
good-by,  his  face  showed  what  it  had  cost  him, 
but  Rachel  was  calm  and  cheerful.  The  pain  of 
parting  is  keenest  to  those  who  go,  but  it  stays 
longer  with  those  who  are  left  behind. 

M  Dorothy,  take  good  care  of  thy  mother  !" 
Friend  Barton  said,  taking  his  daughter's  face 
between  his  hands  and  gravely  kissing  her  brow 
between  the  low-parted  ripples  of  her  hair, 

M  Yes,  father,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  eyes. 
"  Thee  knows  I'm  thy  eldest  son." 

They  watched  the  old  chaise  swing  round  the 
corner  of  the  lane,  then  the  pollard  willows  shut 
it  from  sight. 

"  Come,  mother,"  said  Dorothy,  hurrying  her  in 
at  the  gate.  "  I'm  going  to  make  a  great  pot  of 
mush,  and  have  it  hot  for  supper,  and  fried  for 
breakfast,  and  warmed  up  with  molasses  for  din- 
ner, and  there'll  be  some  cold  with  milk  for  sup- 
per, and  we  shan't  have  any  cooking  to  do  at  all." 

They  went  round  to  the  kitchen  door.  Rachel 
stopped  in  the  wood-shed,  and  the  tears  rushed  to 
her  eyes. 

"  Dear  father  !  How  he  has  worked  over  that 
wood,  early  and  late,  to  spare  us  !" 


FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN.  93 

We  will  not  revive  Dorothy's  struggles  with 
the  farm-work  and  with  the  boys.  They  were  an 
isolated  family  at  the  mill-house  ;  their  peculiar 
faith  isolated  them  still  more,  and  they  were  twelve 
miles  from  meeting  and  the  settlement  of  Friends 
at  Stony  Valley.  Dorothy's  pride  kept  her  silent 
about  her  needs,  lest  they  might  bring  reproach 
upon  her  father  among  the  neighbors,  who  would 
not  be  likely  to  feel  the  urgency  of  his  spiritual 
summons. 

The  summer  heats  came  on  apace  and  the  nights 
grew  shorter.  It  seemed  to  Dorothy  that  she  had 
hardly  stretched  out  her  tired  young  body  and  for- 
gotten her  cares  in  the  low  attic  bedroom,  before 
the  east  was  streaked  with  light  and  the  birds  were 
singing  in  the  apple-trees,  whose  falling  blossoms 
drifted  in  at  the  window. 

One  day  in  early  June,  Friend  Barton's  flock  of 
sheep  — consisting  of  nine  experienced  ewes,  six 
yearlings,  and  a  sprinkling  of  close-curled  lambs 
whose  legs  had  not  yet  come  into  mature  relations 
with  their  bodies — were  gathered  in  a  little  railed 
inclosure,  beside  the  stream  which  flowed  into  the 
M  mill  head."  It  was  supplied  by  the  waste  from 
the  pond,  and  when  the  gate  was  shut,  rambled 
easily  over  the  gray  slate  pebbles,  with  here  and 
there  a  fall,  just  forcible  enough  to  serve  as  a 
douche  bath  for  a  well-grown  sheep.  The  victims 
were  panting  in  their  heavy  fleeces,  and  their 
hoarse,  plaintive  tremolo  mingled  with  the  ripple 
of  the  water  and  the  sound  of  young  voices  in  a 


94  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

frolic.  Dorothy  had  divided  her  forces  for  the 
washing  to  the  best  advantage.  The  two  elder 
boys  stood  in  the  stream  to  receive  the  sheep, 
which  she,  with  the  help  of  little  Jimmy,  caught 
and  dragged  to  the  bank. 

The  boys  were  at  work  now  upon  an  elderly  ewe, 
while  Dorothy  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  stream, 
braced  against  an  ash  sapling,  dragging  at  the 
fleece  of  a  beautiful  but  reluctant  yearling.  Her 
bare  feet  were  incased  in  a  pair  of  moccasins  which 
laced  around  the  ankle  ;  her  petticoats  were  kilted, 
and  her  broad  hat  bound  down  with  a  ribbon  ;  one 
sleeve  was  rolled  up,  the  other  had  been  sacrificed 
in  a  scuffle  in  the  sheep-pen.  The  new  candidate 
for  immersion  stood  bleating  and  trembling,  with 
her  fore  feet  planted  against  the  slippery  bank, 
pushing  back  with  all  her  strength,  while  Jimmy 
propelled  from  the  rear. 

"  Boys  !"  Dorothy's  clear  voice  called  across 
the  stream.  "  Do  hurry!  She's  been  in  long 
enough,  now  !  Keep  her  head  up,  can't  you,  and 
squeeze  the  wool  hard !  You're  not  half  washing  ! 
Oh,  Reuby  !  thee'll  drown  her'!  Keep  her  head 
up  !" 

Another  unlucky  douse  and  another  half-smoth- 
ered bleat, — Dorothy  released  the  yearling  and 
plunged  to  the  rescue.  "  Go  after  that  lamb, 
Reuby  !"  she  cried,  with  exasperation  in  her  voice. 
Reuby  followed  the  yearling,  which  had  disappear- 
ed over  the  orchard  slope,  upsetting  an  obstacle  in 
its  path,   which  happened  to   be  Jimmy.      He  was 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  95 

now  wailing  on  the  bank,  while  Dorothy,  with  the 
ewe's  nose  tucked  comfortably  in  the  bend  of 
her  arm,  was  parting  and  squeezing  the  fleece, 
with  the  water  swirling  round  her.  Her  stout 
arms  ached,  and  her  ears  were  stunned  with  the 
incessant  bleating  ;  she  counted  with  dismay  the 
sheep  still  waiting  in  the  pen.  "  Oh,  Jimmy  !  do 
stop  crying,  or  else  go  to  the  house  !" 

"  He'd  better  go  after  Reuby,"  said  Sheppard 
Barton,  who  was  now  Dorothy's  sole  dependence. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  do,  Jimmy,  that's  a  good  boy.  Tell 
him  to  let  the  yearling  go,  and  come  back  quick." 

The  water  had  run  low  that  morning  in  Eve- 
sham's pond.  He  shut  down  the  mill,  and  strode 
up  the  hills,  across  lots,  to  raise  the  gate  of  the 
lower  Barton  Pond,  which  had  been  heading  up 
for  his  use.  He  passed  the  corn-field  where,  a 
month  before,  he  had  seen  pretty*  Dorothy  Barton 
dropping  corn  with  her  brothers.  It  made  him 
ache  to  think  of  Dorothy,  with  her  feeble  mother, 
the  boys,  as  wild  as  preacher's  sons  proverbially  are, 
and  the  old  farm  running  down  on  her  hands  ;  the 
fences  all  needed  mending,  and  there  went  Reuben 
Barton,  now,  careering  over  the  fields  in  chase  of  a 
stray  yearling.  His  mother's  house  was  big,  and 
lonely,  and  empty  ;  and  he  flushed  as  he  thought 
of  the  "  one  ewe-lamb"  he  coveted,  out  of  Friend 
Barton's  rugged  pastures.  As  he  raised  the  gate, 
and  leaned  to  watch  the  water  swirl  and  gurgle 
through  the  "  trunk,"  sucking  the  long  weeds  with 
it,  and  thickening  with  its  tumult  the  clear  current 


96  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN 

of  the  stream,  the  sound  of  voices  and  bleating  of 
sheep  came  up  from  below.  He  had  not  the  farm- 
ing instincts  in  his  blood  ; — the  distant  bleating, 
the  hot  June  sunshine  and  cloudless  sky,  did  not 
suggest  to  him  sheep-washing  ; — but  now  came  a 
boy's  voice  shouting  and  a  cry  of  distress,  and  he 
remembered,  with  a  thrill,  that  Friend  Barton  used 
the  stream  for  that  peaceful  purpose.  He  shut 
down  the  gate  and  tore  along  through  the  ferns 
and  tangled  grass  till  he  came  to  the  sheep-pen, 
where  the  bank  was  muddy  and  trampled.  The 
prisoners  were  bleating  drearily  and  looking  with 
longing  eyes  across  to  the  other  side,  where  those 
who  had  suffered  were  now  straying  and  cropping 
the  short  turf,  through  the  lights  and  shadows  of 
the  orchard. 

There  was  no  other  sign  of  life,  except  a  broad 
hat  with  a  brown  ribbon,  buffeted  about  in  an 
eddy,  among  the  stones.  The  stream  dipped  now 
below  the  hill,  and  the  current,  still  racing  fast  with 
the  impetus  he  had  given  it,  shot  away  among  the 
hazel  thickets  which  crowded  close  to  the  brink. 
He  was  obliged  to  make  a  detour  by  the  orchard, 
and  come  out  at  the  "•  mill-head  "  below  ; — a  black, 
deep  pool,  with  an  ugly  ripple  setting  across  it  to 
the  "  head-gate/'  He  saw  something  white  cling- 
ing  there  and  ran  round  the  brink.  It  was  the  sod- 
den fleece  of  the  old  ewe  which  had  been  drifted 
against  the  "  head-gate,' '  and  held  there  to  her 
death.  Evesham,  with  a  sickening  contraction  of 
the  heart,  threw  off  his  jacket  for  a  plunge,  when 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  97 

Dorothy's  voice  called  rather  faintly  from  the  wil- 
lows on  the  opposite  bank. 

"  Don't  jump  !  I'm  here,"  she  said.  Evesham 
searched  the  willows,  and  found  her  seated  in  the 
sun  just  beyond,  half  buried  in  a  bed  of  ferns. 

H  I  wouldn't  have  called  thee,"  she  said  shyly, 
as  he  sank,  pale  and  panting,  beside  her,  "  but 
thee  looked — I  thought  thee  was  going  to  jump 
into  the  mill-head  !" 

"  I  thought  you  were  there,  Dorothy  !" 

11  I  was  there  quite  long  enough.  Shep  pulled 
me  out  ;  I  was  too  tired  to  help  myself  much." 
Dorothy  held  her  palm  pressed  against  her  temple, 
and  the  blood  trickled  from  beneath,  streaking  her 
pale,  wet  cheek. 

"  He's  gone  to  the  house  to  get  me  a  cloak.  I 
don't  want  mother  to  see  me — not  yet,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  ought  not  to  wait,  Dorothy. 
Let  me  take  you  to  the  house,  won't  you  ?  I'm 
afraid  you'll  get  a  deadly  chill." 

Dorothy  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  death. 
She  was  blushing  now,  because  Evesham  would 
think  it  so  strange  of  her  to  stay,  and  yet  she  could 
not  rise  in  her  wet  clothes,  which  clung  to  her  like 
the  calyx  to  a  bud. 

"  Let  me  see  that  cut,  Dorothy,  please  !" 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing.  I  don't  wish  thee  to  look  at 
it!" 

"  But  I  will  !  Do  you  want  to  make  me  your 
murderer — sitting  there  in  your  wet  clothes,  with  a 
cut  on  your  head  ?" 


98  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

He  drew  away  her  hand,  and  the  wound,  indeed, 
was  no  great  affair,  but  he  bound  it  up  deftly  with 
strips  of  his  handkerchief.  Dorothy's  wet  curls 
touched  his  fingers  and  clung  to  them,  arid  her 
eyelashes  drooped  lower  and  lower. 

"  I  think  it  was  very  stupid  of  thee.  Didn't  thee 
hear  us  from  the  dam  ?  I'm  sure  we  made  noise 
enough." 

V  Yes,  I  heard  you  when  it  was  too  late.  I  heard 
the  sheep  before,  but  how  could  I  imagine  that  you, 
Dorothy,  and  three  boys,  as  big  as  cockerels,  were 
sheep-washing  ?  It's  the  most  preposterous  thing 
I  ever  heard  of  !" 

"Well,  I  can't  help  being  a  woman,  and  the 
sheep  had  to  be  washed.  I-think  there  ought  to  be 
more  men  in  the  world  when  half  of  them  are 
preaching  and  fighting." 

"  If  you'd  only  let  the  men  who  are  left  help  you 
a  little,  Dorothy  !" 

V  I  don't  want  any  help.  I  only  don't  want  to  be 
washed  into  the  mill-head." 

They  both  laughed,  and  Evesham  began  again 
entreating  her  to  let  him  take  her  to  the  house. 

"  Hasn't  thee  a  coat  or  something  I  could  put 
around  me  until  Shep  comes  ?"  said  Dorothy.  "  He 
must  be  here  soon." 

"  Yes,  I've  got  a  jacket  here  somewhere." 

He  sped  away  to  find  it,  and  faithless  Dorothy, 
as  the  willows  closed  beween  them,  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  fled  like  a  startled  Naiad  to  the 
house. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  99 

When  Evesham,  pushing  through  the  willows, 
saw  nothing  but  the  bed  of  wet,  crushed  ferns  and 
the  trail  through  the  long  grass  where  Dorothy's 
feet  had  fled,  he  smiled  grimly  to  himself,  remem- 
bering that  "  ewe-lambs"  are  not  always  as  meek 
as  they  look. 

That  evening  Rachel  had  received  a  letter  from 
Friend  Barton,  and  was  preparing  to  read  it  aloud 
to  the  children.  They  were  in  the  kitchen,  where 
the  boys  had  been  helping  Dorothy,  in  a  desultory 
manner,  to  shell  corn  for  the  chickens  ;  but  now 
all  was  silence,  while  Rachel  wiped  ner  glasses  and 
turned  the  large  sheet  of  paper,  squared  with  many 
foldings,  to  the  candle. 

She  read  the  date,  "  London  Grove,  5th  month, 
22nd. — Most  affectionately  beloved."  "  He  means 
us  all,"  said  Rachel,  turning  to  the  children  with 
a  tender  smile.     "  It's  spelled  with  a  small  b." 

"  He  means  thee!"  said  Dorothy,  laughing. 
"  Thee's  not  such  a  very  big  beloved." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "  I  don't  know 
that  the  opening  of  the  letter  is  of  general  inter- 
est," Rachel  mused,  with  her  eyes  travelling  slowly 
down  the  page.  "  He  says  :  '  In  regard  to  my 
health,  lest  thee  should  concern  thyself,  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say  I  have  never  enjoyed  better  since  years 
have  made  me  acquainted  with  my  infirmities  of 
body,  and  I  earnestly  hope  that  my  dear  wife  and 
children  are  enjoying  the  same  blessing. 

"  '  I  trust  the  boys  are  not  deficient  in  obedience 
and  helpfulness.     At  Sheppard's  age  I  had  already 


100  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

begun  to  take  the  duties  of  a  man  upon  my  shoul- 
ders.' " 

Sheppard  giggled  uncomfortably,  and  Dorothy 
laughed  outright. 

"  Oh  !  if  father  only  knew  how  good  the  boys 
are  !  Mother,  thee  must  write  and  tell  him  about 
their  '  helpfulness  and  obedience  '  !  Thee  can  tell 
him  their  appetites  keep  up  pretty  well  ;  they  man- 
age to  take  their  meals  regularly,  and  they  are 
always  out  of  bed  by  eight  o'clock,  to  help  me  hang 
up  the  miiking-stool  !" 

"  Just  wait  till  thee  gets  in  the  mill  head  again, 
Dorothy  Barton  !  Thee  needn't  come  to  me  to 
help  thee  out  !" 

"  Go  on,  mother  !  Don't  let  the  boys  interrupt 
thee  !" 

"  Well,"  said  Rachel,  rousing  herself,  "  where 
was  I  ?  Oh,  '  when  I  was  Sheppard's  age  '  !  Well, 
next  come  some  allusions  to  the  places  where  he 
has  visited,  and  his  spiritual  exercises  there.  I 
don't  know  that  the  boys  are  quite  old  enough  to 
enter  into  this  yet.  Thee'd  better  read  it  thyself, 
Dorothy.  I'm  keeping  all  father's  letters  for  the 
boys  to  read,  when  they  are  old  enough  to  appreci- 
ate them." 

"  Well,  I  think  thee  might  read  us  about  where 
he's  been  preachin'  !  We  can  understand  a  great 
deal  more  than  thee  thinks  we  can  !"  said  Shep,  in 
an  injured  voice.  "  Reuby,  he  can  preach  some 
himself  !  Thee  ought  to  hear  him,  mother.  It's 
almost  as  good  as  meetin'  !" 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN  ioi 

"  I  wondered  how  Reuby  spent  his  time  !"  said 
Dorothy,  and  the  mother  hastened  to  interpose. 

"  Well,  here's  a  passage  that  may  be  interesting  : 
*  On  sixth  day  attended  the  youths*  meeting  here, 
— a  pretty  favored  time  on  the  whole.  Joseph  ' 
[that's  Joseph  Carpenter  ;  he  mentions  him  aways 
back]  '  had  good  service  in  lively  testimony,  while 
I  was  calm  and  easy,  without  a  word  to  say.  At  a 
meeting  at  Plumstead,  we  suffered  long,  but  at 
length  we  felt  relieved.  The  unfaithful  were  ad- 
monished, the  youth  invited,  and  the  heavy-hearted 
encouraged.  It  was  a  heavenly  time  ! '  Hereto- 
fore he  seems  to  have  been  closed  up  with  silence 
a  good  deal  ;  but  now  the  way  opens  continually 
for  him  to  free  himself.  He's  been  *  much  favored/ 
he  says,  'of  late.'  Reuby,  what's  thee  doing  to 
thy  brothers  ?"  (Shep  and  Reuby,  who  had  been 
persecuting  Jimmy  by  pouring  handfuls  of  corn 
down  the  neck  of  his  jacket  until  he  had  taken 
refuge  behind  Dorothy's  chair,  were  now  recrimi- 
nating with  corn-cobs  on  each  other's  faces.) 
"  Dorothy,  can't  thee  keep  those  boys  quiet  ?" 

"Did  thee  ever  know  them  to  be  quiet?"  said 
Dorothy,  helping  Jimmy  to  relieve  himself  of  his 
corn. 

H  Well  now,  listen  J"  Rachel  continued  placidly, 
44  ■  Second  day,  27th  '  (of  fifth  month,  he  means,  the 
letter's  been  a  long  time  coming),  '  attended  their 
mid-week  meeting  at  London  Grove,  where  my 
tongue  as  it  were  clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth, 
while   Hannah   Husbands   was  much  favored,  and 


102  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

enabled  to  lift  up  her  voice  like  the  song  of  an 
angel  '  " — • 

M  Who's  Hannah  Husbands  ?"  cried  Dorothy. 

"  Thee  don't  know  her,  dear.  She  was  second 
cousin  to  thy  father's  step-mother  ;  the  families 
were  not  congenial,  I  believe  ;  but  she  has  a  great 
gift  for  the  ministry." 

"  I  should  think  she'd  better  be  at  home  with 
her  children, — if  she  has  any.  Fancy  thee,  mother, 
going  about  to  strange  meetings,  and  lifting  up 
thy  voice. " 

"Hush!  hush!  Dorothy!  Thy  tongue's  run- 
ning away  with  thee.  Consider  the  example  thee's 
setting  the  boys." 

"  Thee'd  better  write  to  father  about  Dorothy, 
mother  !  Perhaps  Hannah  Husbands  would  like 
to  know  what  she  thinks  about  her  preachin'  !" 

"  Well  now,  be  quiet,  all  of  you.  Here's  some- 
thing about  Dorothy  :  '  I  know  that  my  dear 
daughter  Dorothy  is  faithful  and  loving,  albeit 
somewhat  quick  of  speech,  and  restive  under  ob- 
ligation. I  would  have  thee  remind  her  that  an 
unwillingness  to  accept  help  from  others  argues  a 
want  of  Christian  Meekness.  Entreat  her,  from 
me,  not  to  conceal  her  needs  from  our  neighbors, 
if  so  be  she  find  her  work  oppressive.  We  know 
them  to  be  of  kindly  intention,  though  not  of  our 
way  of  thinking  in  all  particulars.  Let  her  receive 
help  from  them,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  instru- 
ments of  the  Lord's  protection,  which  it  were  im- 
piety and  ingratitude  to  deny.'  " 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  103 

14  There  !M  cried  Shep.  44  That  means  thee's  to 
let  Luke  Jordan  finish  the  sheep-washing.  Thee'd 
better  have  done  it  in  the  first  place  We  wouldn't 
have  the  old  ewe  to  pick  if  thee  had  !" 

Dorothy  was  dimpling  at  the  idea  of  Luke  Jordan 
in  the  character  of  an  instrument  of  heavenly  pro- 
tection. She  had  not  regarded  him  in  that  light, 
it  must  be  confessed,  and  had  rejected  him  with 
scorn. 

44  He  may  if  he  wants  to,"  she  said  ;  "  but  you 
boys  shall  drive  them  over.  I'll  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it." 

44  And  shear  them  too,  Dorothy  ?  He  asked  to 
shear  them  long  ago." 

M  Well,  let  him  shear  them,  and  keep  the  wool 
too." 

u  I  wouldn't  say  that,  Dorothy  !"  said  Rachel 
Barton.  M  We  need  the  wool,  and  it  seems  as  if 
over-payment  might  not  be  quite  honest  either." 

"  Oh  !  mother,  mother  !  What  a  mother  thee 
is  !"  cried  Dorothy  laughing,  and  rumpling  her 
cap-strings  in  a  tumultuous  embrace. 

44  She's  a  great  deal  too  good  for  thee,  Dorothy 
Barton." 

"  She's  too  good  for  all  of  us  !  How  did  thee 
ever  come  to  have  such  a  graceless  set  of  children, 
mother  ?" 

44  I'm  very  well  satisfied,"  said  Rachel.  "  But 
now  do  be  quiet,  and  let's  finish  the  letter.  We 
must  get  to  bed  some  time  to-night  !" 

The    wild    clematis    was    in    blossom   now — the 


104  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

fences  were  white  with  it,  and  the  rusty  cedars 
were  crowned  with  virgin  wreaths,  but  the  weeds 
were  thick  in  the  garden  and  in  the  potato  patch. 
Dorothy,  stretching  her  cramped  back,  looked 
longingly  up  the  shadowy  vista  of  the  farm-lane, 
which  had  nothing  to  do  but  ramble  off  into  the 
remotest  green  fields,  where  the  daisies'  faces  were 
as  white  and  clear  as  in  early  June. 

One  hot  August  night  she  came  home  late  from 
the  store.  The  stars  were  thick  in  the  sky  ;  the 
katydids  made  the  night  oppressive  with  their 
rasping  questionings,  and  a  hoarse  revel  of  frogs 
kept  the  ponds  from  falling  asleep  in  the  shadow 
of  the  hills. 

"  Is  thee  very  tired  to-night,  Dorothy?"  her 
mother  asked,  as  she  took  her  seat  on  the  low  step 
of  the  porch.  "  Would  thee  mind  turning  old 
John  out  thyself?" 

"  No,  mother,  I'm  not  tired.  But  why — oh,  I 
know  !"  cried  Dorothy,  with  a  quick  laugh. 
"  The  dance— at  Slocum's  barn.  I  thought  those 
boys  were  uncommonly  helpful." 

"  Yes,  dear,  it's  but  natural  they  should  want  to 
see  it.     Hark  !  we  can  hear  the  music  from  here." 

They  listened,  and  the  breeze  brought  across  the 
fields  the  sound  of  fiddles  and  the  rhythmic  tramp 
of  feet,  softened  by  the  distance.  Dorothy's 
young  pulses  leaped. 

"  Mother,  is  it  any  harm  for  them  just  to  see  it  ? 
They  have  so  little  fun  except  what  they  get  out  of 
teasing  and  shirking." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  105 

'*  My  dear,  thy  father  would  never  countenance 
such  a  scene  of  frivolity,  or  permit  one  of  his  chil- 
dren to  look  upon  it." 

Through  our  eyes  and  ears  the  world  takes  pos-  . 
session  of  our  hearts. 

11  Then  I'm  to  spare  the  boys  this  temptation, 
mother  ?     Thee  will  trust  me  to  pass  the  barn  ?" 

"  I  would  trust  my  boys,  if  they  were  thy  age, 
Dorothy.  But  their  resolution  is  tender,  like  their 
years." 

It  might  be  questioned  whether  the  frame  of 
mind  in  which  the  boys  went  to  bed  that  night, 
under  their  mother's  eye, — for  Rachel  could  be 
firm  in  a  case  of  conscience, — was  more  improving 
than  the  frivolity  of  Slocum's  barn. 

"  Mother,"  called  Dorothy,  looking  in  at  the 
kitchen  window,  where  Rachel  was  stooping  over 
the  embers  in  the  fireplace,  to  light  a  bedroom 
candle,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  thee." 

Rachel  came  to  the  window,  screening  the  candle 
with  her  hand. 

11  Will  thee  trust  me  to  look  at  the  dancing  a  lit- 
tle while  ?     It  is  so  very  near." 

"  Why,  Dorothy,  does  thee  want  to  ?" 

M  Yes,  mother,  I  believe  I  do.  I've  never  seen  a 
dance  in  my  life.  It  cannot  ruin  me  to  look  just 
once." 

Rachel  stood  puzzled. 

"  Thee's  old  enough  to  judge  for  thyself,  Doro- 
thy. But,  my  child,  do  not  tamper  with  thy  incli- 
nations through  heedless  curiosity.     Thee  knows 


106  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN 

thee's  more  impulsive  than  I  could  wish — for  thy 
own  peace." 

"  I'll  be  very  careful,  mother.  If  I  feel  in  the 
least  wicked  I  will  not  look." 

She  kissed  her  mother's  hand,  which  rested  on 
the  window-sill.  Rachel  did  not  like  the  kiss,  or 
Dorothy's  brilliant  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  as  the 
candle  revealed  them  like  a  fair  picture  painted  on 
the  darkness.  She  hesitated,  and  Dorothy  sped 
away  up  the  lane  with  old  John  lagging  at  his 
halter. 

Was  it  the  music  growing  nearer  that  quickened 
her  breathing,  or  only  the  closeness  of  the  night, 
shut  in  between  the  wild  grape-vine  curtains, 
swung  from  one  dark  cedar  column  to  another  ? 
She  caught  the  sweet-brier  breath  as  she  hurried 
by,  and  now,  a  loop  in  the  leafy  curtain  revealed 
the  pond  lying  black  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills,  with 
a  whole  heaven  of  stars  reflected  in  it.  Old  John 
stumbled  along  over  the  stones,  cropping  the  grass 
as  he  went.  Dorothy  tugged  at  his  halter  and 
urged  him  on  to  the  head  of  the  lane  where  two 
farm-gates  stood  at  right  angles.  One  of  them 
was  open,  and  a  number  of  horses  were  tethered  in 
a  row  along  the  fence  within.  They  whinneyed  a 
cheerful  greeting  to  John  as  Dorothy  slipped  his 
halter  and  shut  him  into  the  field  adjoining.  Now 
should  she  walk  into  temptation  with  her  eyes  and 
ears  open  ?  The  gate  stood  wide,  with  only  one 
field  of  perfumed  meadow-grass  between  her  and 
the  lights  and  music  of  Slocum's  barn  !     The  sound 


FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN.  107 

of  revelry  by  night  could  hardly  have  taken  a  more 
innocent  form  than  this  rustic  dancing  of  neigh- 
bors after  a  *'  raisin'  bee,"  but  had  it  been  the  rout 
of  Comus  and  his  crew,  and  Dorothy  the  Lady 
Una,  trembling  near,  her  heart  could  hardly  have 
throbbed  more  thickly  as  she  crossed  the  dewy 
meadow.  A  young  maple  stood  within  ten  rods  of 
the  barn,  and  here  she  crouched  in  shadow. 

The  great  doors  stood  wide  open,  and  lanterns 
were  hung  from  the  beams  lighting  the  space  be- 
tween the  mows,  where  a  dance  was  set,  with 
youths  and  maidens  in  two  long  rows.  The  fid- 
dlers sat  on  barrel-heads  hear  the  door  ;  a  lantern 
hanging  just  behind  projected  their  shadows  across 
the  square  of  light  on  the  trodden  space  in  front 
where  they  executed  a  grotesque  pantomime,  keep- 
ing time  to  the  music  with  spectral  wavings  and 
noddings.  The  dancers  were  Dorothy's  young 
neighbors,  whom  she  had  known  and  yet  not 
known  all  her  life,  but  they  had  the  strangeness  of 
familiar  faces  seen  suddenly  in  some  fantastic 
dream. 

Surely  that  was  Nancy  Slocum,  in  the  bright 
pink  gown,  heading  the  line  of  girls,  and  that 
was  Luke  Jordan's  sunburnt  profile  leaning 
from  his  place  to  pluck  a  straw  from  the  mow  be- 
hind him.  They  were  marching  now,  and  the 
measured  tramp  of  feet,  keeping  solid  time  to  the 
fiddles,  seta  strange  tumult  vibrating  in  Dorothy's 
blood  ;  and  now  it  stopped  with  a  thrill  as  she 
recognized  that  Evesham  was  there  marching  with 


108  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

the  young  men,  and  that  his  peer  was  not  among 
them.  The  perception  of  his  difference  came  to 
her  with  a  vivid  shock.  He  was  coming  forward 
now,  with  his  light,  firm  step,  formidable  in  even- 
ing dress,  and  with  a  smile  of  subtle  triumph  in 
his  eyes,  to  meet  Nancy  Slocum,  in  the  bright  pink 
gown  ;  Dorothy  felt  she  hated  pink,  of  all  the  col- 
ors her  faith  had  abjured.  She  could  see,  in  spite 
of  the  obnoxious  gown,  that  Nancy  was  very 
pretty.  He  was  taking  her  first  by  the  right  hand, 
then  by  the  left,  and  turning  her  gayly  about  ; — 
and  now  they  were  meeting  again,  for  the  fourth 
or  fifth  time,  in  the  centre  of  the  barn,  with  all 
eyes  upon  them,  and  the  music  lingered  while 
Nancy,  holding  out  her  pink  petticoats,  coyly 
revolved  around  him.  Then  began  a  mysterious 
turning,  and  clasping  of  hands,  and  weaving  of 
Nancy's  pink  frock  and  Evesham's  dark  blue  coat 
and  white  breeches  in  and  out  of  the  line  of  fig- 
ures, until  they  met  at  the  door,  and  taking  each 
other  by  both  hands,  swept  with  a  joyous  measure 
to  the  head  of  the  barn.  Dorothy  gave  a  little 
choking  sigh. 

What  a  senseless  whirl  it  was  !  But  she  was 
thrilling  with  a  new  and  strange  excitement,  too 
near  the  edge  of  pain  to  be  long  endured  as  a  pleas- 
ure. If  this  were  the  influence  of  dancing,  she  did 
not  wonder  so  much  at  her  father's  scruples, — and 
yet  it  held  her  like  a  spell. 

All  hands  were  lifted  now,  making  an  arch, 
through   which   Evesham,   holding  Nancy   by  the 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  109 

hands,  raced  stooping  and  laughing.  As  they 
emerged  at  the  door,  he  threw  up  his  head  to  shake 
a  brown  lock  back.  He  looked  flushed,  and  boy- 
ishly gay,  and  his  hazel  eye  searched  the  darkness 
with  that  subtle  ray  of  triumph  in  it  which  had 
made  Dorothy  afraid.  She  drew  back  behind  the 
tree  and  pressed  her  hot  cheek  to  the  cool,  rough 
bark.  She  longed  for  the  stillness  of  the  starlit 
meadow,  and  the  dim  lane,  with  its  faint  perfumes 
and  whispering  leaves. 

But  now  suddenly  the  music  stopped,  and  the 
dance  broke  up  in  a  tumult  of  voices.  Dorothy 
stole  backward  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree-trunk,  till 
it  joined  the  darkness  of  the  meadow,  and  then 
fled, — stumbling  along  with  blinded  eyes,  and  the 
music  still  vibrating  in  her  ears.  There  came  a 
quick  rush  of  footsteps  behind  her,  swishing 
through  the  long  grass.  She  did  not  look  back, 
but  quickened  her  pace,  struggling  to  reach  the 
gate.  Evesham  was  there  before  her.  He  had 
swung  the  gate  to  and  was  leaning  with  his  back 
against  it,  laughing  and  panting. 

"  I've  caught  you,  Dorothy,  you  little  deceiver  ! 
You'll  not  get  rid  of  me  to-night  with  any  of  your 
tricks.  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  to  your 
mother,  and  tell  her  you  were  peeping  at  the  danc- 
ing." 

"  Mother  knows  I  am  here/'  said  Dorothy.  "  I 
asked  her  V  Her  knees  were  trembling,  and  her 
heart  almost  choked  her  with  its  throbbing. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  don't  dance,  Dorothy.     This 


no  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

is  much  nicer  than  the  barn  ;  and  the  katydids  are 
better  fiddlers  than  old  Darby  and  his  son.  I'll 
open  the  gate  if  you  will  put  your  hand  in  mine,  so 
I  can  be  sure  of  you — you  little  runaway  !" 

"  I  will  stay  here  all  night,  first  !"  said  Dorothy, 
in  a  low  quivering  voice. 

"  As  you  choose.  I  shall  be  happy  as  long  as 
you  are  here." 

Dead  silence,  while  the  katydids  seemed  to  keep 
time  to  their  heart-beats  ;  the  fiddles  began  tuning 
for  another  reel,  and  the  horses  tethered  near 
stretched  out  their  necks  with  low  inquiring  whin- 
neys. 

"  Dorothy,"  said  Evesham,  softly,  leaning  tow- 
ard her  and  trying  to  see  her  face  in  the  dark- 
ness, "  are  you  angry  with  me  ?  Don't  you  think 
you  deserve  a  little  punishment  for  the  trick  you 
played  me  at  the  mill-head  ?" 

"  It  was  thy  fault  for  wetting  me  !"  Dorothy 
was  too  excited  and  angry  to  cry,  but  she  was  as 
miserable  as  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life  before. 
"  I  didn't  want  thee  to  stay.  People  who  force 
themselves  where  they  are  not  wanted  must  take 
what  they  get  !" 

"  What  did  you  say,  Dorothy  ?" 

"  I  say  I  didn't  want  thee  then.  I  do  not  want 
thee  now  !  Thee  may  go  back  to  thy  fiddling  and 
dancing  !  I'd  rather  have  one  of  those  dumb 
brutes  for  company  to-night  than  thee,  Walter 
Evesham  !" 

"  Very  well!     The  reel  has  begun,"  said  Eve- 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  in 

sham.  "  Fanny  Jordan  is  waiting  to  dance  it  with 
me,  or  if  she  isn't  she  ought  to  be  !  Shall  I  open 
the  gate  for  you  ?" 

She  passed  out  in  silence,  and  the  gate  swung  to 
with  a  heavy  jar.  She  made  good  speed  down  the 
lane,  and  then  waited  outside  the  fence  till  her 
breath  came  more  quietly. 

**  Is  that  thee,  Dorothy  ?"  Rachel's  voice  called 
from  the  porch.  She  came  out  to  meet  her,  and 
they  went  along  the  walk  together.  "  How  damp 
thy  forehead  is,  child  !  is  the  night  so  warm  ?" 
They  sat  down  on  the  low  steps,  and  Dorothy  slid 
her  arm  under  her  mother's  and  laid  her  soft  palm 
against  the  one  less  soft  by  twenty  years  of  toil  for 
others.  M  Thee's  not  been  long,  dear  ;  was  it  as 
much  as  thee  expected  ?" 

11  Mother,  it  was  dreadful  !  I  never  wish  to  hear 
a  fiddle  again  as  long  as  I  live  !" 

Rachel  opened  the  way  for  Dorothy  to  speak 
further  ;  she  was  not  without  some  mild  stirrings 
of  curiosity  on  the  subject  herself  ;  but  Dorothy 
had  no  more  to  say. 

They  went  into  the  house  soon  after,  and  as  they 
separated  for  the  night,  Dorothy  clung  to  her 
mother  with  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

"  Mother,  what  is  that  text  about  Ephraijn  V* 

*'  Ephraim  is  joined  to  idols?"  Rachel  sug- 
gested. 

"  Yes  !  Ephraim  is  joined  to  his  idols  !"  said 
Dorothy,  lifting  her  head.     "  Let  him  go  !" 

"  Let  him  alone"  corrected  Rachel. 


112  FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN, 

u  Let  him  alone  /"  Dorothy  repeated.  "  That  is 
better  yet." 

"  What's  thee  thinking  of,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  thinking  about  the  dance  in  the 
barn." 

"I'm  glad  thee  looks  at  it  in  that  light,"  said 
Rachel. 

Dorothy  knelt  by  her  bed  in  the  low  chamber 
under  the  eaves,  crying  to  herself  that  she  was  not 
the  child  of  her  mother  any  more. 

She  felt  she  had  lost  something,  which,  in  truth, 
had  never  been  hers.  It  was  only  the  unconscious 
poise  of  her  unawakened  girlhood  which  had  been 
stirred.  She  had  mistaken  it  for  that  abiding  peace 
which  is  not  lost  or  won  in  a  day. 

Dorothy  could  not  stifle  the  spring  thrills  in  her 
blood  any  more  than  she  could  crush  its  color  out 
of  her  cheek  or  brush  the  ripples  out  of  her  bright 
hair,  but  she  longed  for  the  cool  grays  and  the  still 
waters.  She  prayed  that  the  "  grave  and  beauti- 
ful damsel  called  Discretion"  might  take  her  by 
the  hand  and  lead  her  to  that  "  upper  chamber, 
whose  name  is  Peace."  She  lay  awake,  listening 
to  the  music  from  the  barn,  and  waiting  through 
breathless  silences  for  it  to  begin  again.  She  won- 
dered if  Fanny  Jordan  had  grown  any  prettier  since 
she  had  seen  her  as  a  half-grown  girl  ;  and  then 
she  despised  herself  for  the  thought.  The  katy- 
dids seemed  to  beat  their  wings  upon  her  brain, 
and  all  the  noises  of  the  night,  far  and  near,  came 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  1 13 

to  her  strained  senses,  as  if  her  silent  chamber 
were  a  whispering  gallery.  The  clock  struck 
twelve,  and  in  the  silence  that  followed  she  missed 
the  music  ;  but  voices,  talking  and  laughing,  were 
coming  down  the  lane.  There  was  the  clink  of  a 
horse's  hoof  on  the  stones  ;  now  it  was  lost  on  the 
turf  ;  and  now  they  were  all  trooping  noisily  past 
the  house.  She  buried  her  head  in  her  pillow,  and 
tried  to  bury  with  it  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
wondering  if  Evesham  were  there,  laughing  with 
the  rest. 

Yes,  Evesham  was  there.  He  walked  with  Farm- 
er Jordan,  behind  the  young  men  and  girls,  and 
discussed  with  him,  somewhat  absently,  the  war 
news  and  the  prices  of  grain. 

As  they  passed  the  dark  old  house,  spreading  its 
wide  roofs,  like  a  hen  gathering  her  chickens  under 
her  wing,  he  became  suddenly  silent.  A  white 
curtain  flapped  in  and  out  of  an  upper  window.  It 
was  the  window  of  the  boys'  room  ;  but  Evesham's 
instincts  failed  him  there. 

M  Queer  kinks  them  old  Friend  preachers  git 
into  their  heads  sometimes  !"  said  farmer  Jordan, 
as  they  passed  the  empty  mill.  M  Now  what  do 
you  s'pose  took  Uncle  Tommy  Barton  off  right  on 
top  of  plantin',  leavin'  his  wife  'n'  critters  'n'  chil- 
d'en  to  look  after  themselves  ?  Mighty  good 
preachin'  it  ought  to  be,  to  make  up  for  such  prac- 
tical'. Wonderful  set  ag'in  the  war,  Uncle  Tom- 
my is  !  He's  a-preachin'  up  peace  now.  But 
Lord  !  all   the  preachin'    sence   Moses  won't  keep 


114  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

men  from  fightin'  when  their  blood's  up  and  there's 
ter'tory  in  it  !" 

M  It  makes  saints  of  the  women,"  said  Evesham 
shortly. 

"  Wal,  yes  !  Saints  in  heaven  before  their  time, 
some  of  'em.  There's  Dorothy,  now.  She'll  hoe 
her  row  with  any  saint  in  the  kingdom  or  out  of  it. 
I  never  see  a  hulsomer-lookin'  gal.  My  Luke,  he 
run  the  furrers  in  her  corn-patch  last  May.  Said 
it  made  him  sick  to  see  a  gal  like  that  a-staggerin' 
after  a  plow.  She  wouldn't  more'n  half  let  him  ! 
She's  a  proud  little  piece.  They're  all  proud, 
Quakers  is.  I  never  could  see  no  '  poorness  of 
spirit,'  come  to  git  at  'em  !  And  they're  wonder- 
ful clannish,  too.  My  Luke,  he'd  a  notion  he'd 
like  to  run  the  hull  concern — Dorothy  'n'  all  ;  but 
I  told  him  he  might  's  well  p'int  off.  Them 
Quaker  gals  don't  never  marry  out  o'  njeetin'. 
Besides,  the  farm's  too  poor  !" 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Jordan  !"  said  Evesham  sud- 
denly. "  I'm  off  across  lots  !"  He  leaped  the 
fence,  crashed  through  the  alder  hedge-row,  and 
disappeared  in  the  dusky  meadow. 

Evesham  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  his  ex- 
periments in  planetary  distances.  Somewhere,  he 
felt  sure,  either  in  his  orbit  or  hers,  there  must  be 
a  point  where  Dorothy  would  be  less  insensible  to 
the  attraction  of  atoms  in  the  mass.  Thus  far,  she 
had  reversed  the  laws  of  the  spheres,  and  the 
greater  had  followed  the  less.  When  she  had  first 
begun  to  hold  a  permanent  place  in  his  thoughts, 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  115 

he  had  invested  her  with  something  of  that  atmos- 
phere of  peace  and  cool  passivity  which  hedges  in 
the  women  of  her  faith.  It  had  been  like  a  thin, 
clear  glass,  revealing  her  loveliness,  but  cutting  off 
the  magnetic  currents.  A  young  man  is  not  long 
satisfied  with  the  mystery  his  thoughts  have  woven 
around  the  woman  who  is  their  object.  Evesham 
had  grown  impatient  ;  he  had  broken  the  spell  of 
her  sweet  remoteness.  He  had  touched  her,  and 
found  her  human, — deliciously,  distractingly  hu- 
man, but  with  a  streak  of  obduracy  which  history 
has  attributed  to  the  Quakers  under  persecution. 
In  vain  he  haunted  the  mill-dam,  and  bribed  the 
boys  with  traps  and  pop-guns,  and  lingered  at  the 
well-curb  to  ask  Dorothy  for  water,  which  did  not 
reach  his  thirst.  She  was  there  in  the  flesh,  with 
her  arms  aloft,  balancing  the  well-sweep,  while  he 
stooped  with  his  lips  at  the  bucket  ;  but  in  spirit 
she  was  unapproachable.  He  felt,  with  disgust  at 
his  own  persistence,  that  she  even  grudged  him  the 
water  !  He  grew  savage  and  restless,  and  fretted 
over  the  subtle  changes  which  he  counted  in  Doro- 
thy, as  the  summer  waned.  She  was  thinner  and 
paler, — perhaps  with  the  heats  of  harvest,  which 
had  not,  indeed,  been  burdensome  from  its  abun- 
dance. Her  eyes  were  darker  and  shyer,  and  her 
voice  more  languid.  Was  she  wearing  down,  with 
all  this  work  and  care  ?  A  fierce  disgust  possessed 
him,  that  this  sweet  life  should  be  cast  into  the 
breach  between  faith  and  works. 

He  did  not  see  that  Rachel  Barton  had  changed, 


Ii6  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN 

too, — with  a  change  that  meant  more,  at  her  age, 
than  Dorothy's  flushings  and  palings.  He  did  not 
miss  the  mother's  bent  form  from  the  garden,  or 
the  bench  by  the  kitchen  door,  where  she  had  been 
used  to  wash  the  milk-things. 

Dorothy  washed  the  milk-things  now,  and  the 
mother  spent  her  days  in  the  sunny  east  room,  be- 
tween her  bed  and  the  easy-chair,  where  she  sat 
and  mused  for  hours  over  the  five  letters  she  had 
received  from  her  husband  in  as  many  months. 
The  boys  had,  in  a  measure,  justified  their  father's 
faith  in  them,  since  Rachel's  illness,  and  Dorothy 
was  released  from  much  of  her  out-door  work  ;  but 
the  silence  of  the  kitchen,  when  she  was  there  alone 
with  her  ironing  and  dish-washing,  was  a  heavier 
burden  than  she  had  yet  known. 

Nature  sometimes  strikes  in  upon  the  hopeless 
monotony  of  life  in  remote  farm  houses,  with  one 
of  her  phenomenal  moods.  They  come  like  besoms 
of  destruction  ;  but  they  scatter  the  web  of  stifling 
routine  ;  they  fling  into  the  stiffening  pool  the 
stone  which  jars  the  atoms  into  crystal. 

The  storms  which  had  ambushed  in  the  lurid 
August  skies,  and  circled  ominously  round  the 
horizon  during  the  first  weeks  of  September,  broke 
at  last  in  an  equinoctial  which  was  long  remem- 
bered in  the  mill-house.  It  took  its  place  in  the 
family  calendar  of  momentous  dates  with  the  hard 
winter  of  1800  ;  with  the  late  frost,  which  coated 
the  incipient  apples   with  ice,  and  froze  the  new 


FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN.  117 

potatoes   in   the  ground  ;    and   with   the  year  the 
typhus  got  into  the  valley. 

The  rain  had  been  falling  a  night  and  a  day.  It 
had  been  welcomed  with  thanksgiving  ;  but  it  had 
worn  out  its  welcome  some  hours  since,  and  now 
the  early  darkness  was  coming  on  without  a  lull  in 
the  storm.  Dorothy  and  the  two  biggest  boys  had 
made  the  rounds  of  the  farm-buildings,  seeing  all 
safe  for  the  second  night.  The  barns  and  mill 
stood  on  high  ground,  while  the  house  occupied 
the  sheltered  hollow  between.  Little  streams  from 
the  hills  were  washing  in  turbid  currents  across  the 
lower  levels  ;  the  waste- weir  roared  as  in  early 
spring  ;  the  garden  was  inundated,  and  the  meadow 
a  shallow  pond.  The  sheep  had  been  driven  into 
the  upper  barn  floor  ;  the  chickens  were  in  the  corn- 
bin  ;  and  old  John  and  the  cows  had  been  trans- 
ferred from  the  stable,  which  stood  low,  to  the 
weighing-floor  of  the  mill.  A  gloomy  echoing  and 
gurgling  sounded  from  the  dark  wheel-chamber, 
where  the  water  was  rushing  under  the  wheel,  and 
jarring  it  with  its  tumult.  At  eight  o'clock  the 
wood-shed  was  flooded,  and  water  began  to  creep 
under  the  kitchen  door.  Dorothy  and  the  boys 
carried  armfuls  of  wood,  and  stacked  them  in  the 
passage  to  the  sitting-room,  two  steps  higher  up. 
At  nine  o'clock  the  boys  were  sent,  protesting,  to 
bed  ;  and  Dorothy,  looking  out  of  their  window, 
as  she  fumbled  about  in  the  dark  for  a  pair  of 
Shep's  trowsers  which  needed  mending,  saw  a  lan- 
tern flickering  up  the  road.     It  was  Evesham,  on 


Il8  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

his  way  to  the  mill-dams.  The  light  glimmered  on 
his  oil-skin  coat  as  he  climbed  the  stile  behind  the 
well-curb. 

"  He  raised  the  flood-gates  at  noon,"  Dorothy 
said  to  herself.  "  I  wonder  if  he  is  anxious  about 
the  dams."  She  resolved  to  watch  for  his  return, 
but  she  was  busy  settling  her  mother  for  the  night 
when  she  heard  his  footsteps  on  the  porch.  The 
roar  of  water  from  the  hills  startled  Dorothy  as  she 
opened  the  door  ; — it  had  increased  in  violence 
within  an  hour.  A  gust  of  wind  and  rain  followed 
Evesham  into  the  entry. 

*'  Come  in,"  she  said,  running  lightly  across  the 
sitting-room  to  close  the  door  of  her  mother's 
room. 

He  stood  opposite  her  on  the  hearth-rug  and 
looked  into  her  eyes  across  the  estrangement  of  the 
summer.  It  was  not  Dorothy  of  the  mill-head,  or 
of  Slocum's  meadow,  or  the  cold  maid  of  the  well  : 
it  was  a  very  anxious,  lovely  little  girl,  in  a  crum- 
bling old  house,  with  a  foot  of  water  in  the  cellar, 
and  a  sick  mother  in  the  next  room.  She  had  for- 
gotten about  Ephraim  and  his  idols  ;  she  picked 
up  Shep's  trowsers  from  the  rug,  where  she  had 
dropped  them,  and  looking  intently  at  her  thimble 
finger,  told  him  she  was  very  glad  he  had  come. 

"  Did  you  think  I  wouldn't  come  ?"  said  he. 
M  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  with  me,  Dorothy, — 
you  and  your  mother  and  the  boys.  It's  not  fit  for 
you  to  be  here  alone  !" 

M  Do  you  know  of  any  danger  ?" 


FRIEND  BARTONS  CONCERN.  119 

"  I  know  of  none,  but  water's  a  thing  you  can't 
depend  on.  It's  an  ugly  rain  ;  older  men  than 
your  father  remember  nothing  like  it." 

H  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  mother  go,  and  Jimmy  ; 
— the  house  is  very  damp.  It's  an  awful  night  for 
her  to  be  out,  though  !" 

"  She  must  go  !"  said  Evesham.  "  You  must  all 
go.     I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour — " 

"/  shall  not  go,"  Dorothy  said  ;  "  the  boys  and 
I  must  stay  and  look  after  the  stock." 

"What's  that?"  Evesham  was  listening  to  a 
trickling  of  water  outside  the  door. 

"  Oh  !  it's  from  the  kitchen  !  Thedoor's  blown 
open,  I  guess  !" 

Dorothy  looked  out  into  the  passage  ;  a  strong 
wind  was  blowing  in  from  the  kitchen,  where  the 
water  covered  the  floor  and  washed  against  the 
chimney. 

"  This  is  a  nice  state  of  things  !  What's  all  this 
wood  here  for  ?" 

"  The  wood-shed's  under  water,  you  know." 

*'  You  must  get  \ourself  ready,  Dorothy  !  I'll 
come  for  your  mother  first  in  the  chaise." 

"  I  cannot  go,"  she  said  ;  "  I  don't  believe  there 
is  any  danger.  This  old  house  has  stood  for  eighty 
years  ;  it's  not  likely  this  is  the  first  big  rain  in  all 
that  time."  Dorothy's  spirits  had  risen.  "  Be- 
sides, I  have  a  family  of  orphans  to  take  care  of  ! 
See  here,"  she  said,  stooping  over  a  basket  in  the 
shadow  of  the  chimney.  It  was  the  "  hospital 
tent,"  and  as  she  uncovered  it,  a  brood  of  belated 


120  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

chickens  stretched  out  their  thin  necks  with  plain- 
tive peeps. 

Dorothy  covered  them  with  her  hands,  and  they 
nestled  with  cozy  twitterings  into  silence. 

"  You're  a  kind  of  special  providence,  aren't 
you,  Dorothy  ?  But  I've  no  sympathy  with  chick- 
ens who  will'  be  born  just  in  time  for  the  equinoc- 
tial." 

"/didn't  want  them,"  said  Dorothy,  anxious  to 
defend  her  management.  "  The  old  hen  stole  her 
nest,  and  she  left  them  the  day  before  the  rain. 
She's  making  herself  comfortable  now  in  the  corn- 
bin." 

"  She  ought  to  be  made  an  example  of  ; — that's 
the  way  of  the  world,  however  ; — retribution  don't 
fall  always  on  the  right  shoulders.  I  must  go 
now.  We'll  take  your  mother  and  Jimmy  first, 
and  then,  if  you  wont  come,  you  shall  let  me  stay 
with  you.     The  mill  is  safe  enough,  anyhow." 

Evesham  returned  with  the  chaise  and  a  man 
who  he  insisted  should  drive  away  old  John  and 
the  cows,  so  Dorothy  should  have  less  care.  The 
mother  was  packed  into  the  chaise  with  a  vast  col- 
lection of  wraps,  which  almost  obliterated  Jimmy. 
As  they  started,  Dorothy  ran  out  in  the  lain  with 
her  mother's  spectacles  and  the  five  letters,  which 
always  lay  in  a  box  on  the  table  by  her  bed.  Eve- 
sham took  her  gently  by  the  arms  and  lifted  her 
back  across  the  puddles  to  the  stoop. 

As  the  chaise  drove  off,  she  went  back  to  the  sit- 
ting-room and  crouched   on  the  rug,  her  wet  hair 


FRIEND   BARTON" S  CONCERN.  121 

shining  in  the  firelight.  She  took  out  her  chickens 
one  by  one  and  held  them  under  her  chin,  with 
tender  words  and  finger-touches.  If  September 
chickens  have  hearts  as  susceptible  as  their  bodies, 
Dorothy's  orphans  must  have  been  imperilled  by 
her  caresses. 

"  Look  here,  Dorothy  !  Where's  my  trowsers  ?" 
cried  Shep,  opening  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

Reuby  was  behind  him,  fully  arrayed  in  the 
aforesaid  articles,  and  carrying  the  bedroom  can- 
dle. 

"  Here  they  are — with  a  needle  in  them,"  said 
Dorothy.  "  What  are  you  getting  up  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night  for  Y% 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  time  somebody's  up.  Who's 
that  man  driving  off  our  cows  ?" 

"  Goosey  !  It's  Walter  Evesham's  man.  He 
came  for  mother  and  all  of  us,  and  he's  taken  old 
John  and  the  cows  to  save  us  so  much  foddering." 

M  Ain't  we  going  too  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  should,  just  because  there 
happens  to  be  a  little  water  in  the  kitchen.  I've 
often  seen  it  come  in  there  before." 

"  Well,  thee  never  saw  anything  like  this  before 
— nor  anybody  else,  either,"  said  Shep. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Reuby  ;  "  I  wish  there'd 
come  a  reg'lar  flood.  We  could  climb  up  in  the 
mill-loft  and  go  sailin'  down  over  Jordan's  mead- 
ows. Wouldn't  Luke  Jordan  open  that  big  mouth 
of  his  to  see  us  heave  in  sight  about  cock-crow — 


122  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

three  sheets  in  the  wind,  and  the  old  tackle 
a-swingin'  !" 

"  Do  hush  !'-•  said  Dorothy.  "  We  may  have  to 
try  it  yet." 

"  There's  an  awful  roarin'  from  our  window,'* 
said  Shep.  "  Thee  can't  half  hear  it  down  here. 
Come  out  on  the  stoop.  The  old  ponds  have  got 
their  dander  up  this  time." 

They  opened  the  door  and  listened,  standing 
together  on  the  low  step.  There  was,  indeed,  a 
hoarse  murmur  from  the  hills  which  grew  louder 
as  they  listened. 

"  Now  she's  comin'  !  There  goes  the  stable- 
door  !  There  was  only  one  hinge  left,  anyway," 
said  Reuby.     "  Mighty  !     Look  at  that  wave  !" 

It  crashed  through  the  gate,  swept  across  the 
garden,  and  broke  at  their  feet,  sending  a  thin 
sheet  of  water  over  the  floor  and  stoop. 

"  Now  it's  gone  into  the  entry.  Why  didn't 
thee  shut  the  door,  Shep  ?" 

"  Well,  I  think  we'd  better  clear  out,  anyhow. 
Let's  go  over  to  the  mill.   Say,  Dorothy, sha'n't  we  ?" 

"  Wait.     There  comes  another  wave  !" 

The  second  onset  was  not  so  violent,  but  they 
hastened  to  gather  together  a  few  blankets,  and 
the  boys  filled  their  pockets,  with  a  delightful  sense 
of  unusualness  and  peril,  almost  equal  to  a  ship- 
wreck or  an  attack  by  Indians.  Dorothy  took  her 
unlucky  chickens  under  her  cloak  and  they  made  a 
rush,  all  together,  across  the  road  and  up  the  slope 
to  the  mill. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  123 

M  Why  didn't  we  think  to  bring  a  lantern  ?"  said 
Dorothy,  as  they  huddled  together  on  the  platform 
of  the  scale.     M  Will  thee  go  back  after  one,  Shep  ?" 

"  If  Reuby'll  go,  too.'' 

"  Well,  my  legs  are  wet  enough  now  !  What's  the 
use  of  a  lantern  ?     Mighty  Moses  !     What's  that  ?" 

"  The  old  mill's  got  under  weigh  !"  cried  Shep. 
"She's  going  to  tune  up  for  Kingdom  Come  I" 

A  furious  head  of  water  was  rushing  along  the 
race.  The  great  wheel  creaked  and  swung  over, 
and  with  a  shudder  the  old  mill  awoke  from  its 
long  sleep.  The  cogs  clenched  their  teeth,  the 
shafting  shook  and  rattled,  the  stones  whirled 
merrily  round. 

11  Now  she  goes  it  !"  cried  Shep,  as  the  humming 
increased  to  a  tremor,  and  the  tremor  to  a  wild, 
unsteady  din,  till  the  timbers  shook  and  the  bolts 
and  windows  rattled.  "  I  just  wish  father  could 
hear  them  old  stones  hum." 

"  Oh,  this  is  awful  !"  said  Dorothy.  She  was 
shivering,  and  sick  with  terror  at  this  unseemly 
midnight  revelry  of  her  grandfather's  old  mill.  It 
was  as  if  it  had  awakened  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  and 
given  itself  up  to  a  wild  travesty  of  its  years  of 
peaceful  work. 

Shep  was  creeping  about  in  the  darkness. 

"  Look  here  !  We've  got  to  stop  this  clatter 
somehow.  The  stones  are  hot  now.  The  whole 
thing'll  burn  up  like  tinder  if  we  can't  chock  her 
wheels." 

"  Shep  !     Does  thee  mean  it  ?" 


124  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

M  Thee'll  see  if  I  don't.  Thee  won't  need  any 
lantern  either. " 

"  Can't  we  break  away  the  race  ?" 

"  Oh,  there's  a  way  to  stop  it.  There's  the  tip- 
trough,  but  it's  down-stairs,  and  we  can't  reach 
the  pole." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  It's  outside,  thee  knows.  Thee'll  get  awful 
wet,  Dorothy." 

M  Well,  I'd  just  as  soon  be  drowned  as  burned 
up.     Come  with  me  to  the  head  of  the  stairs." 

They  felt  their  way  hand  in  hand  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  Dorothy  went  down  alone.  She  had  for- 
gotten about  the  "  tip-trough,"  b.ut  she  understood 
its  significance.  In  a  few  moments  a  cascade  shot 
out  over  the  wheel,  sending  the  water  far  into  the 
garden. 

"  Right  over  my  chrysanthemum  bed  !"  sighed 
Dorothy. 

The  wheel  swung  slower  and  slower,  the  mock- 
ing tumult  subsided,  and  the  old  mill  sank  into 
sleep  again. 

There  was  nothing  now  to  drown  the  roaring  of 
the  floods  and  the  steady  drive  of  the  storm. 

"  There's  a  lantern,"  Shep  called  from  the  door. 
He  had  opened  the  upper  half,  and  was  shielding 
himself  behind  it.  "  I  guess  it's  Evesham  coming 
back  for  us.  He's  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  fellow, 
after  all  ;  don't  thee  think  so,  Dorothy  ?  He  owes 
us  something  for  drowning  us  out  at  the  sheep- 
washing." 


FRIEND  BARTON  S  CONCERN.  125 

11  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  said  Dorothy,  as 
Evesham  swung  himself  over  the  half-door,  and  his 
lantern  showed  them  in  their  various  phases  of 
wetness. 

'  There's  a  big  leak  in  the  lower  dam  !  I've 
been  afraid  of  it  all  along  ;  there's  something 
wrong  in  the  principle  of  the  thing." 

Dorothy  felt  as  if  he  had  called  her  grandfather! 
a  fraud,  and  her  father  a  delusion  and  a  snare. 
She  had  grown  up  in  the  belief  that  the  mill-dams 
were  part  of  Nature's  original  plan,  in  laying  the 
foundations  of  the  hills  ; — but  it  was  no  time  to  be 
resentful,  and  the  facts  were  against  her. 

M  Dorothy/'  said  Evesham,  as  he  tucked  the 
buffalo  about  her,  "  this  is  the  second  time  I've 
tried  to  save  you  from  drowning,  but  you  never 
will  wait  !  Fni  all  rea^dy  to  be  a  hero,  but  you 
won't  be  a  heroine." 

M  I'm  too  practical  for  a  heroine,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  There  !  I've  forgotten  my  chickens." 

M  I'm  glad  of  it  !  Those  chickens  were  a  mis- 
take.    They  oughtn't  to  be  perpetuated." 

Youth  and  happiness  can  stand  a  great  deal  of 
cold  water  ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
Rachel  Barton  should  be  especially  benefited  by 
her  night  journey  through  the  floods.  Evesham 
waited  in  the  hall  when  he  heard  the  door  of  her 
room  open  next  morning.  Dorothy  came  slowly 
down  the  stairs  ;  he  knew  by  her  lingering  step 
and  the  softly  closed  door  that  she  was  not  happy. 

M  Mother  is  very  sick,"  she  answered  his  inquiry. 


126  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

M  It  is  like  the  turn  of  inflammation  and  rheuma- 
tism she  had  once  before.  It  will  be  very  slow, — 
and  oh  !  it  is  such  suffering  !  Why  do  the  best 
women  in  the  world  have  to  suffer  so  ?" 

"  Will  you  let  me  talk  things  over  with  you  after 
breakfast,  Dorothy  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !"  she  said  ;  li  there  is  so  much  to  do 
and  think  about.      I  wish  father  would  come  home  !" 

The  tears  came  into  Dorothy's  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  him.  Rest — such  as  she  had  never  known,  or 
felt  the  need  of  till  now — and  strength  immeasur- 
able, since  it  would  multiply  her  own  by  an  un- 
known quantity,  stood  within  reach  of  her  hand, 
but  she  might  not  put  it  out  !  And  Evesham  was 
dizzy  with  the  struggle  between  longing  and  reso- 
lution. 

He  had  braced  his  nerves  for  a  long  and  hungry 
waiting,  but  fate  had  yielded  suddenly  ; — the 
floods  had  brought  her  to  him, — his  flotsam  and 
jetsam,  more  precious  than  all  the  guarded  treas- 
ures of  the  earth.  She  had  come,  with  all  her  girl- 
ish, unconscious  beguilements,  and  all  her  womanly 
cares,  and  anxieties  too.  He  must  strive  against  her 
sweetness,  while  he  helped  her  to  bear  her  burdens. 

"Now  about  the  boys,  Dorothy,"  he  said  two 
hours  later,  as  they  stood  together  by  the  fire  in 
the  low,  oak-finished  room  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
which  was  his  office  and  book-room.  The  door 
was  ajar,  so  Dorothy  might  hear  her  mother's  bell. 
V  Don't  you  think  they  had  better  be  sent  to  school 
somewhere  ?" 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  127 

"  Yes/'  said  Dorothy,  "  they  ought  to  go  to 
school — but — well,  I  may  as  well  tell  thee  the 
truth  !  There's  very  little  to  do  it  with.  We've 
had  a  poor  summer.  I  suppose  I've  managed 
badly,  and  mother  has  been  sick  a  good  while." 

M  You've  forgotten  about  the  pond-rent,  Doro- 
thy/' 

M  No,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  flush  ;  "  I  hadn't 
forgotten  it  ;  but  I  couldn't  ask  thee  for  it  IV 

"  I  spoke  to  your  father  about  monthly  pay- 
ments ;  but  he  said  better  leave  it  to  accumulate 
for  emergencies.  Shouldn't  you  call  this  an  *  emer- 
gency,' Dorothy?" 

M  But  does  thee  think  we  ought  to  ask  rent  for  a 
pond  that  has  all  leaked  away  ?"  w 

"  Oh,  there's  pond  enough  left,  and  I've  used  it 
a  dozen  times  over  this  summer !  I  would  be 
ashamed  to  tell  you,  Dorothy,  how  my  horn  has 
been  exalted  in  your  father's  absence.  However, 
retribution  has  overtaken  me  at  last  ;  I'm  responsi- 
ble, you  know,  for  all  the  damage  last  night.  It 
was  in  the  agreement  that  I  should  keep  up  the 
dams." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Dorothy  ;  "  is  thee  sure  ?" 

Evesham  laughed. 

11  If  your  father  were  like  any  other  man,  Doro- 
thy, he'd  make  me  '  sure,'  when  he  gets  home  !  I 
will  defend  myself  to  this  extent  :  I've  patched  and 
propped  them  all  summer,  after  every  rain,  and 
tried  to  provide  for  the  fall  storms  ;  but  there's  a 
flaw  in  the  original  plan — " 


128  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  Thee  said  that  once  before/'  said  Dorothy. 
"  I  wish  thee  wouldn't  say  it  again." 

"  Why  not?" 

M  Because  I  love  those  old  mill-dams  !  I've  trot- 
ted over  them  ever  since  I  could  walk  alone  !" 

44  You  shall  trot  over  them  still  !  We  will  make 
them  as  strong  as  the  everlasting  hills.  They  shall 
outlast  our  time,  Dorothy." 

44  Well,  about  the  rent,"  said  Dorothy.  44  I'm 
afraid  it  wilt  not  take  us  through  the  winter,  unless 
there  is  something  I  can  do.  Mother  couldn't  pos- 
sibly be  moved  now,  and  if  she  could,  it  will  be 
months  before  the  house  is  fit  to  live  in.  But  we 
cannot  stay  here  in  comfort,  unless  thy  mother  will 
let  me  make  up  in  some  way.  Mother  will  not 
need  me  all  the  time,  and  I  know  thy  mother  hires 
women  to  spin." 

44  She'll  let  you  do  all  you  like,  if  it  will  make 
you  any  happier.  But  you  don't  know  how  much 
money  is  coming  to  you.  Come,  let  us  look  over 
the  figures." 

He  lowered  the  lid  of  the  black  mahogany  secre- 
tary, placed  a  chair  for  Dorothy,  and  opened  a 
great  ledger  before  her,  bending  down,  with  one 
hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  the  other  turning 
the  leaves  of  the  ledger.  Considering  the  index, 
and  the  position  of  the  letter  B  in  the  alphabet,  he 
was  a  long  time  finding  his  place.  Dorothy  looked 
out  of  the  window,  over  the  tops  of  the  yellowing 
woods,  to  the  gray  and  turbid  river  below.  Where 
the  hemlocks  darkened  the  channel  of  the  glen,  she 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN.  129 

heard  the  angry  floods  rushing  down.  The  form- 
less rain  mists  hung  low,  and  hid  the  opposite 
shore. 

"  See  !"  said  Evesham,  with  his  finger  wander- 
ing rather  vaguely  down  the  page.  "  Your  father 
went  away  on  the  third  of  May.  The  first  month's 
rent  came  due  on  the  third  of  June.  That  was  the 
day  I  opened  the  gate  and  let  the  water  down  on 
you,  Dorothy.  I'  m  responsible  for  everything,  you 
see, — even  for  the  old  ewe  that  was  drowned  !" 

His  words  came  in  a  dream  as  he  bent  over  her, 
resting  his  unsteady  hand  heavily  on  the  ledger. 

Dorothy  laid  her  cheek  on  the  date  she  could  not 
see,  and  burst  into  tears. 

M  Don't — please  don't  !"  he  said,  straightening 
himself,  and  locking  his  hands  behind  him.  "  I 
am  human,  Dorothy  !" 

The  weeks  of  Rachel's  sickness  that  followed 
were  perhaps  the  best  discipline  Evesham's  life  had 
ever  known.  He  held  the  perfect  flower  of  his 
bliss,  unclosing  in  his  hand  ;  yet  he  might  barely 
permit  himself  to  breathe  its  fragrance  !  His 
mother  had  been  a  strong  and  prosperous  woman  ; 
there  was  little  he  could  ever  do  for  her.  It  was 
well  for  him  to  feel  the  weight  of  helpless  infirmity 
in  his  arms,  as  he  lifted  Dorothy's  mother  from 
side  to  side  of  her  bed,  while  Dorothy's  hands 
smoothed  the  coverings.  It  was  well  for  him  to 
see  the  patient  endurance  of  suffering,  such  as  his 
youth  and  strength  defied.  It  was  bliss  to  wait  on 
Dorothy,  and  follow  her  with  little  watchful  horn- 


130  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN 

ages,  received  with  a  shy  wonder  which  was  deli- 
cious to  him, — for  Dorothy's  nineteen  years  had 
been  too  full  of  service  to  others  to  leave  much 
.room  for  dreams  of  a  kingdom  of  her  own.  Her 
silent  presence  in  her  mother's  sick-room  awed 
him.  Her  gentle,  decisive  voice  and  ways,  her 
composure  and  unshaken  endurance  through  nights 
of  watching  and  days  of  anxious  confinement  and 
toil,  gave  him  a  new  reverence  for  the  mysteries  of 
her  unfathomable  womanhood. 

The  time  of  Friend  Barton's  return  drew  near. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  Dorothy  welcomed  it 
with  a  little  dread,  and  Evesham  did  not  welcome 
it  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  thought  of  it 
roused  all  his  latent  obstinacy  and  aggressiveness. 
The  first  day  or  two  after  the  momentous  arrival 
wore  a  good  deal  upon  every  member  of  the  family, 
except  Margaret  Evesham,  who  was  provided  with 
a  philosophy  of  her  own,  which  amounted  almost 
to  a  gentle  obtuseness,  and  made  her  a  comfortable 
non-conductor,  preventing  more  electric  souls  from 
shocking  each  other. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  Dorothy 
came  out  of  her  mother's  room  with  a  tray  of 
empty  dishes  in  her  hands.  She  saw  Evesham  at 
the  stair-head  and  hovered  about  in  the  shadowy 
part  of  the  hall  till  he  should  go  down. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "  I'm  waiting  for  you." 
He  took  the  tray  from  her  and  rested  it  on  the 
banisters.  "  Your  father  and  I  have  talked  over 
all  the  business.     He's  got  the  impression  I'm  one 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  131 

of  the  most  generous  fellows  in  the  world.  I  in- 
tend to  let  him  rest  in  that  delusion  for  the  pres- 
ent. Now  may  I  speak  to  him  about  something 
else,  Dorothy  ?  Have  1  not  waited  long  enough 
for  my  heart's  desire  ?" 

"  Take  care!"  said  Dorothy,  softly, — "  thee'li 
upset  the  tea-cups  !" 

"  Confound  the  tea-cups  !"  He  stooped  to  place 
the  irrelevant  tray  on  the  floor,  but  now  Dorothy 
was  half-way  down  the  staircase.  He  caught  her 
on  the  landing,  and  taking  both  her  hands,  drew 
her  down  on  the  step  beside  him. 

41  Dorothy,  this  is  the  second  time  you've  taken 
advantage  of  my  unsuspicious  nature  !  This  time 
you  shall  be  punished  !  You  needn't  try  to  hide 
your  face,  you  little  traitor  !  There's  no  repent- 
ance in  you  !" 

"  If  I'm  to  be  punished  there's  no  need  of  repent- 
ance." 

"  Dorothy,  do  you  know,  I've  never  heard  you 
speak  my  name,  except  once,  when  you  were  angry 
with  me." 

M  When  was  that?" 

"  The  night  I  caught  you  at  the  gate.  You  said, 
*  I  would  rather  have  one  of  those  dumb  brutes  for 
company  than  thee,  Walter  Evesham.'  You  said 
it  in  the  fiercest  little  voice  !  Even  the  \  thee ' 
sounded  as  if  you  hated  me." 

"  I  did,"  said  Dorothy  promptly.  "  I  had  rea- 
son to." 

"  Do  you  hate  me  now,  Dorothy  ?" 


132  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  Not  so  much  as  I  did  then." 

11  What  an  implacable  little  Quaker  you  are  !" 

"  A  tyrant  is  always  hated/'  said  Dorothy,  trying 
to  release  her  hands. 

"  If  you  will  look  in  my  eyes,  Dorothy,  and  call 
me  by  my  name,  just  once, — I'll  let  '  thee  '  go." 

"  Walter  Evesham  !"  said  Dorothy,  with  great 
firmness  and  decision. 

"  No  !  that  won't  do  !  You  must  look  at  me, — 
and  say  it  softly, — in  a  little  sentence,  Dorothy  !" 

*'  Will  thee  please  let  me  go,  Walter  ?" 

Walter  Evesham  was  a  man  of  his  word,  but  as 
Dorothy  sped  away,  he  looked  as  if  he  wished  he 
were  not. 

The  next  evening,  Friend  Barton  sat  by  his 
wife's  easy-chair,  drawn  into  the  circle  of  firelight, 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  between 
his  hands. 

The  worn  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head  had 
widened  considerably  during  the  summer,  but 
Rachel  looked  stronger  and  brighter  than  she  had 
for  many  a  day.  There  was  even  a  little  flush  on 
her  cheek,  but  that  might  have  come  from  the  ex- 
citement of  a  long  talk  with  her  husband. 

"I'm  sorry  thee  takes  it  so  hard,  Thomas  ;  I  was 
afraid  thee  would.  But  the  way  didn't  seem  to 
open  for  me  to  do  much.  I  can  see  now,  that 
Dorothy's  inclinations  have  been  turning  this  way 
for  some  time,  though  it's  not  likely  she  would 
own  it,  poor  child  ;  and  Walter  Evesham's  not  one 
who  is  easily  gainsayed.     If  thee  could   only  feel 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN  133 

differently  about  it,  I  can't  say  but  it  would  make 
me  very  happy  to  see  Dorothy's  heart  satisfied. 
Can't  thee  bring  thyself  into  unity  with  it,  father? 
He's  a  nice  young  man.  They're  nice  folks.  Thee 
can't  complain  of  the  blood.  Margaret  Evesham 
tells  me  a  cousin  of  hers  married  one  of  the  Law- 
rences, so  we  are  kind  of  kin,  after  all." 

M  I  don't  complain  of  the  blood  ;  they're  well 
enough  placed  as  far  as  the  world  is  concerned  ! 
But  their  ways  are  not  our  ways,  Rachel  !  Their 
faith  is  not  our  faith  !" 

M  Well  !  I  can't  see  such  a  very  great  difference, 
come  to  live  among  them  !  '  By  their  fruits  ye 
shall  know  them/  To  comfort  the  widow  and  the 
fatherless,  and  keep  ourselves  unspotted  from  the 
world  ! — thee's  always  preached  that,  father  !  I 
really  can't  see  any  more  worldliness  here  than 
among  many  households  with  us, — and  I'm  sure  if 
we  haven't  been  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  this 
summer,  we've  been  next  to  it  !" 

Friend  Barton  raised  his  head  a  little,  and  rested 
his  forehead  on  his  clasped  hands. 

M  Rachel,"  he  said,  M  look  at  that  \"  He  pointed 
upward  to  an  ancient  sword  with  belt  and  trap- 
pings, which  gleamed  on  the  panelled  chimney- 
piece — crossed  by  an  old  queen's  arm.  Evesham 
had  given  up  his  large  sunny  room  to  Dorothy's 
mother,  but  he  had  not  removed  all  his  lares  and 
penates. 

V  Yes,  dear  ;  that's  his  grandfather's  sword— ^ 
Colonel  Evesham,  who  was  killed  at  Saratoga  !" 


134  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

v  Why  does  he  hang  up  that  thing  of  abomina- 
tion for  a  light  and  a  guide  to  his  footsteps,  if  his 
way  be  not  far  from  ours  ?" 

11  Why,  father  !  Colonel  Evesham  was  a  good 
man  ! — I  dare  say  he  fought  for  the  same  reason 
that  thee  preaches — because  he  felt  it  his  duty  !" 

"  I  find  no  fault  with  him,  Rachel.  Doubtless  he 
followed  his  light,  as  thee  says  ;  but  he  followed  it 
in  better  ways  too.  He  cleared  land  and  built  a 
homestead  and  a  meeting-house.  Why  don't  his 
grandson  hang  up  his  old  broad-ax  and  plough- 
share, and  worship  them,  if  he  must  have  idols,  in- 
stead of  that  symbol  of  strife  and  bloodshed.  Does 
thee  want  our  Dorothy's  children  to  grow  up  un- 
der the  shadow  of  that  sword  ?" 

There  was  a  stern  light  of  prophecy  in  the  old 
man's  eyes. 

"  Maybe  Walter  Evesham  would  take  it  down," 
said  Rachel,  leaning  back  wearily  and  closing  her 
eyes.  M  I  never  was  much  of  a  hand  to  argue, 
even  if  I  had  the  strength  for  it  ;  but  it  would  hurt 
me  a  good  deal — I  must  say  it — if  thee  denies 
Dorothy  in  this  matter,  Thomas.  It's  a  very  seri- 
ous thing  to  have  old  folks  try  to  turn  young 
hearts  the  way  they  think  they  ought  to  go.  I  re- 
member now, — I  was  thinking  about  it  last  night, 
and  it  all  came  back  as  fresh  !  I  don't  know  that 
I  ever  told  thee  about  that  young  friend  who 
visited  me  before  I  heard  thee  preach  at  Stony 
Valley  ?  Well  !  father,  he  was  wonderful  pleased 
with  him,  but  I  didn't  feel  any  drawing  that  way. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN.  135 

He  urged  me  a  good  deal,  more  than  was  pleasant 
for  either  of  us.  He  wasn't  at  all  reconciled  to 
thee,  Thomas,  if  thee  remember." 

"  I  remember/'  said  Thomas  Barton,  "  it  was  an 
anxious  time." 

11  Well  dear,  if  father  had  insisted,  and  sent  thee 
away,  I  can't  say  but  life  would  have  been  a  very 
different  thing  to  me." 

11  I  thank  thee  for  saying  it,  Rachel."  Friend 
Barton's  head  drooped  between  his  hands. 

M  Thee's  suffered  much  through  me  ;  thee's  had 
a  hard  life,  but  thee's  been  well  beloved." 

The  flames  leaped  and  flickered  in  the  chimney, 
they  touched  the  wrinkled  hands,  whose  only 
beauty  was  in  their  deeds  ;  they  crossed  the  room 
and  lit  the  pillows  where,  for  three  generations, 
young  heads  had  dreamed,  and  gray  heads  had 
watched  and  suffered  ;  then  they  mounted  to  the 
chimney  and  struck  a  gleam  from  the  sword. 

"Well,  father,"  said  Rachel,  "  what  answer  is 
thee  going  to  give  Walter  Evesham  ?" 

"  I  shall  say  no  more,  my  dear.  Let  the  young 
folks  have  their  way.  There's  strife  and  conten- 
tion enough  in  the  world  without  my  stirring  up 
more.  And  it  may  be  I'm  resisting  the  Master's 
will  ;  I  left  her  in  His  care  :  this  may  be  His  wayj 
of  dealing  with  her." 

Walter  Evesham  did  not  take  down  his  grand- 
father's sword.  Fifty  years  later  another  went  up 
beside  it, — the  sword  of  a  young  Evesham  who 
never  left  the   field  of  Shiloh  :  and   beneath  them 


136  FRIEND  BARTON'S    CONCERN. 

both  hangs  the  portrait  of  the  Quaker  grandmother, 
Dorothy  Evesham,  at  the  age  of  sixty-nine. 

The  golden  ripples,  silver  now,  are  hidden  under 
a  "  round-eared  cap,"  the  quick  flush  has  faded  in 
her  cheek,  and  fold  upon  fold  of  snowy  gauze  and 
creamy  silk  are  crossed  over  the  bosom  that 
thrilled  to  the  fiddles  of  Slocum's  barn.  She  has 
found  the  cool  grays  and  the  still  waters  ;  but  on 
Dorothy's  children  rests  the  "  Shadow  of  the 
Sword  "  ! 


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